Hopeless
by EidolonLathi
Summary: A Loveless AU. John could not have foreseen that one day a mysterious bruise would form on his arm. Nor could he have known that it was no bruise at all but a mark connecting him to his soulmate. Finding out the identity of the person fate connected him with comes not only as a surprise for John but for everyone else involved. [Jim MoriartyxJohn Watson]


Fandom: Sherlock

Ships and Friendships: Jim Moriarty/John Watson, John Watson & Sherlock Holmes

Summary: A Loveless AU. John could not have foreseen that one day a mysterious bruise would form on his arm. Nor could he have known that it was no bruise at all but a mark connecting him to his soulmate. Finding out the identity of the person fate connected him with comes not only as a surprise for John but for everyone else involved.

* * *

**Hopeless**

**Twisted Light**

When the name appeared, John did not lose much thought about it. At first it looked like a bruise, most likely gotten when he had been chasing that perfume thief together with Sherlock. Things like that happened often. But then, instead of just healing, the outlines of the bruise had gotten clearer until they had formed a word: "Hopeless."

Well. That certainly was weird. But then, going on adventures with Sherlock often ended in weird ways, so a scar accidentally forming into a word was one of the tamer things to be honest. The scar was located on his left forearm, so it could be easily hidden with clothing. And to be honest, John preferred it to be hidden. Otherwise people could think he had gotten himself an overly dramatic tattoo. "Hopeless", really.

So it really was an accident that due to the relentless August heat Mycroft had ended up seeing it at all. If he had asked Sherlock to look at those Dotted Zebra files a day later, when it already had been much colder again, he would not have seen it at all.

But right now he was standing in their living room, staring perplexed at John's scar.

"John, what's this thing on your forearm?", Mycroft finally asked.

"Oh, this? Nothing, really. Just a scar I got while being on a case with Sherlock. It is rather annoying, really: It's making people assume that I tried to fight an acute case of mid-life crisis with a silly tattoo", John said, letting out an embarrassed laugh.

Mycroft was still staring at his arm. "John, would you please let me see this?"

Now Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh. He was already in a bad mood because of that file Mycroft wanted him to look at.

"Oh, Mycroft. Would you please leave John's arm alone? He's bruised enough, even without your icy hands giving him frost bites on top of it!"

Mycroft didn't react to Sherlock's teasing, eyes fixed on John's arm, hand hovering above the mark, but not quite touching it.

"That is no bruise Sherlock. It's something else."

"What do you mean, something else?", Sherlock asked, looking sceptical.

John begun feeling uncomfortable under Mycroft's concerned stare. "No, it's ok Mycroft, it really is. Look, I just got a funny bruise, that's all."

Now a guilty light flashed up behind Mycroft's eyes and that was the moment John really started to feel uneasy.

Mycroft lowered his gaze before he spoke, averting both John's and Sherlock's eyes. "I think it is time to tell you something. Or no, better, to show you something. Both of you, please come with me. Right now."

"What about that awfully urgent Zebra file?", Sherlock asked.

"Right now that's not important. Get your bags packed and ready."

John sighed. "Bags? Why? Where are we going?"

"Baskerville."

* * *

Mycroft looked even guiltier than he had done in their living room. John angrily paced up and down the small room the three of them were in. Sherlock just stared in confusion at the figure sitting behind the window.

It was John who got his voice back first. "Why? Mycroft! Why did you keep this from us?"

Mycroft held John's angry look. "Because I thought it to be safer for the both of you not to know. In fact, I believe the less people know about this situation, the better."

John had calmed down a bit. Now he felt more betrayed than angry. "But Sherlock isn't 'most people'. At least he should have known!"

Both looked at Sherlock, who still had not moved and was just silently staring at the figure dressed in white. Both Mycroft and John shuddered when Sherlock suddenly started speaking in an unusually weak voice. "So, you said he can't see us? He just sees a mirror, right?"

"Yes Sherlock, he doesn't know we're here", Mycroft confirmed.

Sherlock's voice still sounded devoid of any strength. "And you are sure it's really him? He looks the same but he has a completely different air about him. Besides, I saw him shoot himself. One moment he was there with me and the next he wasn't anymore." For the first time since they were in this room Sherlock moved, tearing his gaze away from the window, looking at Mycroft. "There was blood flowing out of his head. Moriarty was dead, Mycroft."

John froze into place, rendered silent by Sherlock's hurt expression. He cursed his own blindness. Sherlock had seen -or at least had believed to have seen- how a person had committed suicide right in front of his eyes. Of course this had affected him. Sherlock being Sherlock he had acted like it hadn't but John should have seen it. Oh, how easily were people fooled by Sherlock's icy exterior but at least as his friend John should have known better by now, John cursed inwardly.

Mycroft's voice shook John out of his dark thoughts. "What you've seen was the truth, Sherlock. Moriarty really shot himself. But when our people reached him, it turned out that he had survived the injury. Seeing how important getting information from him is, we tried our best to keep him alive and have him recover."

So you would have let him die if that would have been the more convenient choice, John angrily thought. Only a moment later he felt surprised by his own thoughts. Where was that urge coming from to defend Moriarty? But well, John was a doctor after all and as such he wasn't allowed to bring likes and dislikes into play when he was treating a patient. Even when the patient was a criminal like Moriarty.

Irritated John looked at Mycroft. "But that still doesn't explain why you asked us to come here: My scar. What has Moriarty being alive to do with my scar?"

Mycroft avoided his gaze and turned towards the door instead. "It has to do with everything, John." He opened the door and talked with the soldier standing on duty outside of it. The next moment the soldier entered the room Moriarty was waiting in, telling him something, voice too silent that they could understand anything. Hearing the soldier's instructions Moriarty showed the unsurprised face of someone who had heard the same order countless times before. Face still emotionless he shoved down the collar of his shirt to reveal his left collarbone. Right under it, matching John's scar in size, shape and appearance stood a word: "Hopeless".

* * *

"I refuse to believe you, Mycroft! This is a coincidence, nothing more. It's a bit weird, I admit, but I still fail to see how any of this has deeper meaning", John huffed angrily. He pointed towards the training hall Mycroft and an officer were now leading him and Sherlock to. "And I heavily doubt anything else you want to show us will change my opinion about that."

"Taking into account it's information coming from you its credibility is doubtful anyway", Sherlock added, still standing under too much shock to muster up more than a baffled annoyance.

Once they had arrived in the hall they were greeted by four people. Two guys who seemed to be soldiers working in Baskerville and a boy and a girl, young enough to still be in high school.

"This is a demonstration. Please show us your names and one of your fighting moves. Nothing flashy, just something to demonstrate your abilities", the officer addressed both pairs.

Immediately the soldiers bared their upper arms, revealing a matching scar saying "Fearless". The kids, high school sweethearts judging by the impression they gave, revealed their marks called "Effortless".

Sherlock sighed in demonstrative annoyance. "Is that all? Matching tattoos? The only thing this reveals is a bad taste in choosing your tattoo motive."

"Wait until you see them sparring with each other", Mycroft said.

Tired by this whole confusing mess John refused to partake in any further conversation and concentrated on the fighting moves the two pairs were getting ready to perform. It was no combat style John was familiar with. It seemed to be some sort of pair fight, but that was all he could guess. And really, the dark haired Fearless got himself ready to attack the girl, during all of this intently listening to some instructions ginger Fearless was giving. He seemed to succeed expect… Now John was not sure he had seen clearly: It was the boy who had been hit by the force of the move instead of the targeted girl.

Confused he looked at Mycroft. "What just happened?"

"Exactly what it looked like. But Officer Cooper can explain the details better than I."

Officer Cooper nodded and continued. "This specific sort of fighting style can only be used by pairs sharing the same name. We are still not sure how and why this marks suddenly appear. But they're only shared by two people sharing a strong emotional bond with each other. Whenever a named pair is fighting another one, one of the two has the ability to fight while the other one gets all the damage directed at the fighter. Why and how the damage gets transferred is still being researched. The only thing we can say for sure is that this occurrences are happening with every named pair we have encountered so far."

Officer Cooper addressed the high schoolers: "Jessica! Timothy! Show us your line!"

The pair slightly raised their right hands up and then suddenly a silvery thread appeared, connecting them from wrist to wrist.

"A named pair is also able to produce a line connecting them. The nature of this phenomena is yet unclear and under research", Officer Cooper said.

"This fighting style is efficient, especially when being used with the right strategy. So it has been of great interest to us", Mycroft explained, giving John a meaningful look.

John felt fresh anger welling up inside of him. "Am I supposed to believe this nonsense? Magical soul bonding connected to a flashy fighting style. Please! This is laughable!"

"The whole thing is ridiculous, even for your standards", Sherlock added, giving Mycroft an outraged look. The whole talk about mystic soul connections seemed to have done the trick to shake him out of his shock.

"I know this is a lot to take in. But the fact that such a useful phenomenon now concerns the two of you too is an opportunity too valuable to ignore." Mycroft now looked John in the eyes. "So, John, please: Would you at least consider talking with Moriarty?"

At first John had not been ready to consider it. At all. But then curiosity had gotten the better of him. This and Mycroft's and Sherlock's constant pleading to do it anyway. Yes, Sherlock's pleading too. Because he might have been against partaking in any meddling his brother was involved in out of principle but the prospect of hearing Moriarty talk had gotten him all eager.

So that was why John found himself currently sitting across Moriarty in the same grey room he had just seen him sitting in not even an hour ago.

Moriarty knitted his eyebrows together, confusion spreading over his face. "So… we used to know each other but are not friends, you say?"

John did his best to remain calm. "Yes, that's right. We hadn't met very often though. Is there anything you remember?"

Moriarty's expression suddenly lit up. "Ah, I got it! I heard them calling you "Dr Watson" before. Could it be that you used to be my psychiatrist? Your face really seems a bit familiar!"

John supressed a sigh. "No, I wasn't your psychiatrist. We really didn't meet this often", John said, trying to keep his voice steady.

He hadn't signed up for this. He had expected to meet the old Moriarty, the one strapping bombs to him. He would have known how to deal with him or at least, how to react getting confronted with him. What John had not been prepared for was interacting with this hapless creature looking at him with puzzlement.

"Oh. I just thought because they mentioned the other day that I would get a new psychiatrist, so that would have made sense", Jim said, looking disappointed.

"If anything I'm more the friend of a friend", John said, realizing how with sudden clarity how weird the situation he was in actually was. Feeling restless he already changed the subject: "Psychiatrist? They make you see one?"

"Ah, yes. He's supposed to make me remember things but nothing has really worked so far." A shadow crept over Jim's face. "They won't tell me much either, so I don't really know why I'm here or who I actually am. You're the first one of my acquaintances they've allowed me to see. Aside from that Moran that was here once. I would have liked to talk some more to him but they only let me see him once." Jim sighed, lowering his gaze. "So, you know a friend of mine then?"

"Yes, though, to be honest, the two of you are more some sort of rivals than friends. As far as I understand it, the both of you always want to prove to the other that you're the intellectual superior." Despite himself John had to smile. "To be honest, I always found that very annoying."

Jim weakly smiled back. "I feel like I should apologise. Because what you just described really sounds like something I would do. Well, at least I guess so. I don't really know because I still can't remember anything clearly." He sighed absentmindedly. "But your face honestly looks familiar, so I think that's a good thing."

John gulped. Until now he had tried to deny it but he was honestly starting to feel sorry for the man sitting right in front of him. The old Moriarty always had been several steps ahead of him, too busy playing mind games together with Sherlock to spare John much attention. John remembered the act of Richard Brook Moriarty had played, good enough to fool Kitty Riley. But for John, who had seen Moriarty's darker side several times before, that façade had been more than obvious. He still remembered the daring looks Moriarty and Sherlock had exchanged with each other when Miss Riley hadn't been looking. But the confusion of the Jim sitting right in front of him was genuine, John could tell.

What were Mycroft and the people trying to get information out of Jim planning? To recover his memory just to dispose of him once he was no longer useful? He wouldn't put it past them.

"So, is there a special reason you're here, Dr Watson?"

"John. I told you it's ok to call me John." If fate insisted to link him together with a soul mate he would absolutely refuse to stay on last name terms. The whole matter was ridiculous enough as it was.

"Yes, sorry, John then." Jim paused for a moment, beginning to look hesitant. "Excuse the sudden question but: Say, aren't you trying to get the old me back? I'm just asking because that's all they ever care about. Getting the person back I was before that accident."

John frowned. So they hadn't even told him the truth but let Jim believe the rooftop incident had been an accident? What else had they lied about to him? Mycroft really could have told John more details. "That's not why I'm here. I'm not trying to get anyone back. Actually, I'd like to get to know you better. See, the two of us never really had much opportunity to talk, so doing that right now is kind of interesting." It honestly was, John had to admit.

Jim's expression turned sceptical "You're the first one then who is interested in current me and not a memory."

"I'm really just here because of you. Present you."

Now Jim's eyes got a completely guarded look. "But you're still here for a reason? I find it hard to believe that you're here for simple chit-chat."

"The reason I'm here. Well. Remember how that guy made you reveal the word standing on your chest before?"

* * *

It was late in the evening, when the two of them were already back in their hotel room, when Sherlock asked: "So, how did he take it, the whole soulmate thing?"

"I thought you had been watching our conversation through that awful window?", John asked. Yes, Sherlock had watched everything through it and Mycroft had probably recorded everything of it as well.

"I left before that."

"You left? I thought Moriarty was your favourite playmate that prevented you from becoming bored?", John said, despite his efforts his voice having sounded a tad too sharp. He didn't want to be mean to Sherlock but he was getting sick of everyone's mind games.

"It was weird, seeing him like this. This open. I'm used interacting with him when he's wearing masks, not seeing him when he's being honest."

Hearing this a frown showed up on John's face. He walked into the bathroom, beginning to brush his teeth. Anything to avoid eye contact right now. "What do you mean, masks?"

"He's always wearing them. Or used to wear them." Sherlock's voice became thoughtful. "You know, the only time I never saw him wearing one was on that roof, when… you know. When he admitted that he felt desperate and hopeless. That's the only time he's ever been honest about his feelings. Back then and today in that room. He wasn't lying today, wasn't he? I don't get it."

John spat out tooth paste. "I'm not a psychiatrist. But it's not unusual for a patience with a head injury to experience changes in their personality. The brain's a sensitive matter, Sherlock. And Jim's lucky he survived without any bigger injuries than what he's displaying now. Memory loss is by far one of the milder things that could have happened to him."

Deep in thought John continued brushing his teeth. Masks, huh? After all Sherlock had said, John came to the conclusion that he had met Jim for the first time for real today. A new beginning, so to speak. Not that he understood this whole linked name nonsense any better by now, but still. It had to count for something.

John heard Sherlock turning off the TV. "So, what did he say? About that soul mate matter?", Sherlock asked.

Hearing the question John had to remember Jim's face, full of confusion, looking hurt. "He took it rather calm. Or maybe he just had been in shock. I couldn't really tell."

There is the saying that a good night's sleep lets matters appear in a clearer light once morning arrives but more often than not this is mere wishful thinking instead of the actual state of things.

John had hoped that a night of sleep would make the outlook on the matter easier but to be honest, he felt just as confused as yesterday. And judging by the dark shadows under his eyes Jim felt the same. The harsh neon lights of that damn grey room did nothing to lighten up the mood.

"I still don't get what that name is supposed to mean? It's so bleak. Hopeless", Jim said, trying to look brave, despite his obvious confusion.

The thought had entered John's mind as well. But in the meanwhile he had found an attempt of a more positive approach. "I think it depends on the perspective. We're called hopeless because trying to defeat us is hopeless", John said, showing a little smile.

Jim's eyes lit up and he hesitantly smiled back. After a moment he continued: "I met my new psychiatrist this morning. Told you I was getting a new one. She's nice."

"So, does she have any new ideas how to help you getting your memory back? For example, visiting places you used to know or something?"

"Jim's eyes darkened. "I'm not allowed to leave this facility, John. They won't let me. They refuse to tell me why, though. I don't understand."

John felt the same irritation rising up that had accompanied him through yesterday. So, everything that person in front of him knew were the walls of this building. What were the people in charge fearing he might do in the fresh air? Violently getting lost if left alone? Jesus.

"What are you doing all day then?", John asked.

"Reading. I have my books."

"Reading? What kind of books?"

"Literature. I like reading stories."

That was an answer Richard the Storyteller might have given. But maybe in every disguise there was a small part of the truth, John thought. "What are you reading at the moment?"

"Stephen King. Pet Sematary."

John took a deep breath. "I only know the movie. That's a scary one. That damned cat."

"The cat's scary, but it's not like it actually is evil. It didn't ask to be buried on that cursed ground. Though, that story aside, I like cats in real life." Suddenly Jim looked thoughtful. "It's a funny thing: I know that I like cats more than dogs, but I can't remember interacting with an actual cat ever. I just know."

John smiled. "I like cats too."

But despite the communication with Jim beginning to feel almost effortless matters couldn't stay that way.

This afternoon things happened really fast. The already forgotten Dotted Zebra case suddenly won in urgency, as the criminals involved no longer were satisfied abducting pets. Now they had captured the child of one of the victims involved. Mycroft urged Sherlock and John to return home, immediately, arguing it was not as if Moriarty, kept in cells under the ground, would go anywhere anytime soon.

Sherlock had refused to listen, pointing out how much more interesting it was to be near Moriarty again. But John had urged him to cooperate. Child in danger and stuff.

But now that John was in the process of hastily packing his bag, he felt that his heart wasn't really in it. To be honest, talking some more with Jim would actually have been sort of all right. Especially now, that he and Jim were starting to get along with each other. The sentiment sounded weird in his own ears. But then, the way Jim was now was a lot different then back then, when John just had known him as the Consulting Criminal. Or maybe he was not that different at all, and the person John had spent time with the last few hours had always been under the masks Moriarty had worn.

Guilt started to grow in John's chest. He really did not like that he had to go away so suddenly, without even saying good bye.

During the entire car ride Sherlock had not said a thing. John twitched in surprise by his sudden words: "I could have saved him. If I just hadn't been this blind."

"Sherlock?"

"About what I told you. Moriarty. On the roof. I didn't realize how desperate he was, though he was standing right in front of my eyes. I should have seen it."

"You were under stress. The entire situation was difficult for you as well."

"He was standing under stress too and I never realized. I should have seen it. But the game was all that mattered to me at that time." Sherlock sighed, and his next words were so silent that John barely wasn't able to understand them: "I didn't want him to die, John.

* * *

**Sky Ended**

The rain had soaked through Sherlock's coat, chilling him to the bones. But he was too upset to notice any of this. Angrily he stormed towards the car coming down the road. He started talking before his brother had opened the door properly: "Your men are imbeciles, Mycroft! If you force cases on us at least make sure we get all the information we need to know!"

Mycroft held Sherlock's stare, the guilt in his eyes impossible to miss: "There was a mole in our information system, giving false data on purpose to hinder the investigations. He could escape before we could get hold of him and now we are still trying to find him."

"Moles? At least try to pick better people!", Sherlock huffed, getting into the car.

"That's what I'm constantly trying to do, believe me."

"Stop acting superior! If it weren't for you, John wouldn't have been kidnapped!"

Mycroft avoided holding Sherlock's gaze any longer by turning towards Anthea. "Any signs of the whereabouts of Everett?"

"Not much, Sir. Signals of his phone were at last detected in the area near his working place but that was already two hours ago. Dr Watson's phone shows no signal either. The abductors must have disposed of it."

"Is that all you can do, Mycroft? The ear of the abducted boy reached his home before he himself did. Are you telling me I have to wait around until the same happens to John?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I can't imagine you waiting around Sherlock. Besides, listen to what we have gathered on new information so far: It might give us an idea to where they have taken John."

But as it turned out none of the new facts were helping much. The most they could gather was that investigating the stationary shop in Dover Street might reveal more clues. Sherlock had fallen quiet, looking out of the car window, pretending to ignore Mycroft. They had to be fast or the kidnappers would begin to cut away flesh before they could reach John. It had been their pattern with all the abducted pets and children before and there was no reason to believe they would treat John any differently.

As it was raining heavily, the streets were quite deserted. The only figure Sherlock could spot was an elderly woman, bringing her dog out to a much needed walk. It had to be urgent on the dog's part, or its owner would have waited until the rain had become less heavy. But here they were, the woman holding a blue umbrella, the colour matching the leash of her black poodle. The dog had to be very dear to her if she choose both, umbrella and the dog's leash, in matching designs.

Sherlock suddenly went very still, as if afraid to scare away the idea beginning to form in his head. Dog on leash. Connecting dog and human. Leash. Connection.

"Mycroft! We've been idiots, both of us!"

"What is it? You know where John is?"

"No! But it doesn't matter if I know it or not! Because there is an easy way to find out. That's the elegance of it. It's been so obvious, why didn't I think of it sooner?"

"Explain it then."

"The line, Mycroft! That silvery line connecting of those soul mates of yours! We just need Moriarty to let the one show up connecting him to John and then follow it!"

Mycroft's face lit up but darkened just a moment later. "Yes. Now that you mention it, we really should have thought of it much sooner. But it's not as easy as it sounds: Making lines over great distances is very difficult. Only pairs with a strong emotional connection can do this. It's just been a short time since Moriarty and John have met each other again. They won't be able to produce such a long line yet."

"Where's the problem? Just get Moriarty to London and let him make the line here! The distance here is much shorter."

"Sherlock! How do you imagine this works? We can't bring Moriarty here!"

"Can't or won't? If anyone can do it, it's you."

Looking outraged Mycroft just shook his head.

Sherlock's gaze hardened. "It is thanks to you John's in danger now. You owe me something."

Mycroft sighed, knowing that he had lost this battle. Reluctantly he got out his phone. Calls needed to be made.

It turned out that Mycroft was not only able to get Moriarty here, once things were set into motion, he arrived very fast.

And that was why Sherlock once again was stumbling through the rain, this time with Moriarty by his side. He looked at the silvery thread looping around Moriarty's wrist. "Is it difficult to keep the connection up?"

Moriarty looked up at him, eyes looking serious. "No, not at all. It's funny, I've never done this before but the moment I knew John's life was depending on it, it was easy to let the thread show up. It won't disappear, I can feel it."

"Good! Hurry up, we must be near now."

"Right."

Sherlock turned his head, looking at Moriarty. Despite everything that had happened before the rooftop, it was apparent that the person next to him felt just as desperate to get John back as Sherlock did. Odd as it appeared, but Sherlock knew it to be the truth. This knowledge standing clear in his mind he was beginning to feel sympathy towards the man walking besides him and he did not like this: Emotions were so messy. But he could do nothing to make the ones forming now go away.

And yet, how were current events supposed to make sense?

Moriarty was supposed to always be one step ahead of Sherlock. Supposed to make the game interesting and to challenge him. He wasn't supposed to be soaked in rain water, hurrying so much that he was out of breath since a while now, looking more upset with every passing minute. No, Sherlock couldn't explain why that was but the fact still remained: Moriarty felt just as concerned about John as Sherlock did.

Having reached a decision Sherlock grabbed Moriarty's arm, helping him along the muddy path.

"Let me help you. Okay?"

"Okay. I'm sorry that I'm so slow. Haven't been outside in ages."

"That's hardly your fault. But it goes easier now, right?"

Moriarty showed a lopsided smile, conflicting emotions flashing up behind his eyes. "Yes. Thank you. I'm still sorry you have to drag me along like this."

"Don't mention it. Just keep up this silvery line and I'll deal with the rest."

"Yes. Let's do this", Moriarty sighed. And after a moment of hesitation added: "You can help John, right? Once we get there? You can get him out?" Moriarty's eyes looked concerned now.

Sherlock still didn't know what he was thinking about the whole soul mate thing. It was all so unbearably sentimental and illogical on too many levels. But Jim honestly seemed to be concerned about John. And people caring about John stood much higher on Sherlock's list of approval than, let's say, people who wanted to cut John's ear off to put it into the mailbox. And besides, this Moriarty right next to him was so much easier to read than the one before. The one hiding behind masks. It made Sherlock giddy to think about how much fun it could be to interact with this Jim. Playing the game with each other rather than against each other. This had the potential to become very exciting, yes.

Sherlock smiled. "Of course I can get him out. Those bastards will be truly sorry that they ever laid their filthy hands on John."

* * *

**Remaining Light**

Sherlock had sprang out of his chair minutes ago. He and Mycroft were circling around each other like animals looking for a weak point to attack.

"Of course he has to stay, Mycroft. Thanks to Jim we could save John. There's no way we will send him back to that nasty place of yours."

"It's a matter of safety, Sherlock."

"Yes, it is. Of John's safety. If anything ever happens again, Jim already will be here to get him back with that soulmate line of theirs. So he stays."

"Staying? And joining the two of you in your reckless hunt for the wicked, I guess."

"Of course not. Jim doesn't like legwork, so he will look with us at the cases and help us getting an understanding of them before we're ready to dash out. Getting our hands dirty is the speciality of John and me."

Right now it was not his chair John was sitting in but the couch. With Jim right next to him. He could not bear the thought of Jim leaving. Not after John had been locked in that stuffed room for hours. And then, suddenly, their thread had materialized. Connecting them, showing John he was missed and being searched. Visible proof that he belonged somewhere and was being wanted.

Hesitantly he reached for Jim's hand, afraid to scare him if being too forceful. But Jim immediately took his hand and squeezed back. The connection of the silvery line had been clear to feel, getting stronger the nearer Jim had gotten. But holding each other's hand was yet another thing. Warm. Solid.

Sceptically John looked up at Mycroft. He and Sherlock were still arguing. Screw what Mycroft was saying: John would not let go of that hand again, no matter what.

"Sherlock, it is a reckless idea. Beside, here's hardly enough space for one more person."

"Don't get so upset. Just use your CCTV cameras to watch over us. And those are just the tip of the iceberg of your little surveillance system, I'm sure."

Mrs Hudson who had been quietly witnessing the scene until now, making sure John had hot tea to drown his shock in, spoke up: "Mycroft Holmes! John wouldn't be safely here with us right now if it wasn't for the help of this young man! And he only got in danger due to a case you handed to him and Sherlock, no less. I think this requires some compensation, don't you think?"

Mycroft paused, searching for words. "There's still the question of where Moriarty is supposed to stay exactly."

Mrs Hudson looked unfazed. "The room in the souterrain is still free, so space will be no problem." She emphasized her point by handing Jim a cup of tea.

Feeling himself being outnumbered, Mycroft's resistance weakened. "Fine. I'll make sure he can stay here. But the connecting names matter is still under research, so expect me to show up more often."

Sherlock showed a content smile. "If that's all that it takes, I'm sure we can handle it."

And they were able to handle it.

John helped Jim setting up his things in the souterrain. Not that there were a lot of things to set up. But John really was bad when it came to talking about his feelings, so he hoped his actions would speak clearer instead.

They were nearly finished and all that was left was putting Jim's few books into the small bookshelf.

John looked up to the small window. The summer sun was bright today but not much of its light reached Jim's room.

"I'm sorry it's only a basement room", John heard himself say.

Surprised Jim turned his head. "No, why? Everything's fine. I like it here."

"It's a bit dark in here though. Make sure you come up into the living room as often as you can", John said.

"Thank you. But I really like it here. You know, I had no window before, so I'm glad I have one now to begin with.

"Come up to join us into the living room anyway."

Jim showed a defeated smile. "If you insist, I will."

From this time on whenever a new case got in, Sherlock encouraged Jim to help and look at it too. John knew that this had very little to do with Sherlock wishing to solve a case faster. It was because he loved competing with Jim, seeing who it would be to catch the first vital clue to progress a case. At first Jim was hesitant but soon he seemed to enjoy solving those puzzles too.

Sherlock's predicaments had been true tough: Whenever they had to leave the house to go on with their investigations, it still was only Sherlock and John. The fact that Jim was already out of breath once he had climbed up the stairs to the living room was only part of the reason. The main one really was that Jim didn't like to do legwork. Not that John held that against him.

This evening, when Sherlock and he returned after a sudden leave for a case, they were greeted with sounds of laughter. Turned out that Mrs Hudson had made Jim stay in her kitchen for tea.

"Oh, look who came back! Did the two of you have any success with the model ship builders?", Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock showed a content smile. "I would say so. The murderer really bought one of the limited sets. The shop owner could give us pretty clear descriptions of the people who bought one of those. Turned out that the model builder community is rather small."

"That's nice to hear. But really, the two you must stop scaring me so much when you storm out of the house like this. At least Jim here never has hectic outbursts like this" She showed Jim a knowing smile. "You're more the quiet type, I can see it. My husband used to be the same. Couldn't deal with hectic very well."

Jim apolitically shrugged his shoulders, showing an embarrassed grin. "Well maybe. I don't really know."

A realization formed in John's mind: "Mrs Hudson! That was the same thing you said to me when we first met. What makes you sure you're right this time?"

"Well, as you said, back then we had only just me. By I know Jim much better now. After all, someone has to make sure he eats properly whenever the two of you are running around to chase the bad guys." She looked at Jim and gestured to his still half full plate. "You have to eat up, dear. You're still way too skinny, it hurts me to see it."

* * *

Though they were living under the same roof, the pull of their true name had not ceased a single bit. If anything it had only grown stronger. So it was no surprise that there were more and more nights the bed in Jim's room stayed unoccupied.

Not because much happened, really.

It was just that most nights these days they ended up spending time together in John's room. Silently laying on John's bed, watching telly. Sometimes they would start talking until they forgot the time. John knew that just like he himself Jim did not want to be alone during those nights: There were times when nights were holding anxiety inducing worries when still awake and nightmares once sleep had arrived and not being alone helped.

And often Jim simply fell asleep while watching TV, like he had done just now. John looked at him quietly. Though he never complained about it, John knew that Jim got tired rather quickly: Still not remembering much, experiencing so many things for the first time had to be very exhausting for him. And the time in Baskerville where he had been forced to spend his days in locked and sunless rooms had been a strain on their own.

But that was getting better.

They went out whenever there was time besides John's work as a doctor and the cases Sherlock brought in. They had been to the park this afternoon, despite it really having been cold outside. But it had snowed and it had stayed instead of melting away. Jim had no memory of snow so they had ventured outside anyway, icy cold be dammed. Aside from some people walking their dogs no one had been at the park, thus the snowy landscape had still been undisturbed, its surface glimmering in the weak winter sun. Jim's eyes had lit up by the sight of this calm, white landscape and he had looked truly unconcerned for the first time since he had arrived to live with them.

During the rest of the day John had silently recalled this expression in his mind, over and over again. Just as he was remembering right now.

He felt tired too. The cold had a habit of burning away all of his energy. But up in his room it was warm and Jim was with him. He had the feeling that the both of them would be all right.

**The End**

* * *

Authors's Notes: I wrote this story a very long time ago, when I just had started to write again. And due to this I somehow never ended up posting it. But despite all of this I still like how this story turned out, so I decided to post it anyway.

This fic is also cross posted on ao3.


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